


To Aught So Chaste

by voodoochild



Category: Carnivale
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Religion, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:10:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Point, counterpoint, check, checkmate - the battle between Iris and Justin is an old one. Stroud is simply the latest pawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Aught So Chaste

**Author's Note:**

> Title and quote from George Gordon, Lord Byron's "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage". Justin's sermon quotes are from the book of Jeremiah, chapter 44, verses 2-7, as well as Deuteronomy 27:25 (because he really is an Old Testament kind of guy). He deliberately misquotes Matthew (the _love_ of money is the root of all evil) because he's the Usher and has been known to twist Scripture to his own purposes. Iris quotes Deuteronomy 27:22, a verse she and Justin have probably memorized in two languages.

_"And that lov'd one, alas! Could never be his  
Ah, happy she! To 'scape from him whose kiss  
Had been pollution to aught so chaste  
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss  
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste"_  
\- George Gordon, Lord Byron, "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto 3"

~*~*~*~*~

_"You yourselves have seen all the disaster that I have brought on Jerusalem, sayest our Lord . . ."_

Another sermon.

Another chance for his razor-sharp tongue to rebuke her (he'd certainly paid attention to her own talent in that area). Another excuse for Justin to twist the minds of his followers toward his own ends. He needn't have worked so hard - they'd been in the palm of his hand after Tommy's (her) confession, and tripled in number after the debacle with Norman. Brave, selfless, Norman who couldn't even see he was being manipulated by the wrong child.

Because it was manipulation, make no mistake about it.

Iris had never meant to drag Norman into the middle of this battle. It was between her and Justin, and while there were some unfortunate side effects (Tommy, Celeste - anyone who would separate them, really), they had been minor pawns in this stalemate between them. Except along came Norman, and she couldn't let his presence at her side go unnoticed by Justin. He hadn't believed it -their righteous adopted father trying to kill him? The man who still, even after everything he'd seen, didn't believe that his son couldn't be killed by any mortal means.

The man who still didn't know what miracles - and what cruelties - Justin was capable of.

But she'd always known. Ever since he was born, she'd witnessed his extraordinary abilities coupled with their mother's whispers (_he is destined for greatness, Irina, he will be king of kings and lord of lords and you will be his right hand_).

And so she had been.

_"Look at them; today they are a desolation . . ."_

Yes, her brother had always been gifted. Gifted at not only the darker aspects of his nature (black eyes eclipsing mirror-blue), but at his chosen profession. His voice rang with authority and conviction, and despite all she'd seen, everything he'd done, Iris could still hear the truth in his voice. Justin believed, beyond reason, beyond truth, that he was meant for greatness. That it was his destiny to preach to the faithful and bring the heretical to ruin. She'd seen the most prideful of politicians and downtrodden of workers alike fall to their knees and weep when confronted with the power of Justin's message.

_". . . because of the wickedness that they committed . . ."_

As she'd fallen to her own when confronted with his insurmountable rage. Because while he was destined to commit the gravest sins under the veil of divinity, she would not, could not, be so tainted. She was his stainless idol, and he could not stand to see blood on her hands. So she had borne the burden of penance for him. A thousand shining pieces - one hundred twenty five pleas for deliverance - eight victims - and one dark night of the soul. She had paid the price in blood, and now had her own lash marks to bear.

It was too much for him to ask of her, and he knew it.

Knew exactly how many tears she'd shed up in that dark, lonely room when she believed he was going to sacrifice her. Knew intimately the crosshatched scars on her knees; had traced them oh-so-delicately with fingers and tongue. Knew he shouldn't have put her through that trial, but did it regardless. After all, she'd put him through trial by fire - she deserved the same.

Point. Counterpoint. Check . . . and mate.

Small wonder she'd been half-tempted to take Justin up on his offer of giving herself to Tommy, if it meant watching him squirm. It would have been payback for one, two, three spineless little maids and their all-too-fragile minds. Their screams like music to her brother - like ice-picks to her.

No, she'd never been one for the sadism. To force a mind into compliance and enjoy the pain it caused? That was always Justin's forte, and he triumphed every time, though he'd never figured out how to punish the submissive. He'd pursued Sofie because of the innate compulsion that had pushed him to seek out her mother, and while Iris had no illusions as to how far he would go, she knew the girl couldn't hold his interest for long.

He would go back to pursuing Iris, because that was how it had always been. She lead, teaching him all she knew (_you have a destiny, and now is your time to fulfill it_), and he followed, learning and relearning what he (and she) had known since birth (_you always knew what was inside of me_).

_" . . . provoking me to anger, in that they went to make offerings and serve other gods that they had not known."_

Follow the leader, Justin, and then you will truly become one.

~*~*~*~*~

She watched, as she always did, as Justin continued his sermon, being pulled into it despite herself. Lord, was her brother in rare form, as he preached not from the pulpit (having abandoned it as soon as New Canaan was built), but from a simple dais. Gone were the days of his simply reading the sermon into the microphone - Justin never could stand still for very long. He paced the length of the dais, cassock folding in wing-like around him, and his hands sketched visions sacred and profane into the air.

_"Yet I persistently sent you my servants the prophets . . ."_

So righteous. So self-righteous. Every prophet in his house, and make no mistake, this was Justin's house.

Everything in the tent belonged to him. The banners - "Templeton for Congress", "New Canaan Dignity Ministries" - fluttering behind him, keeping time with the movements of his hands. The migrants, sitting ramrod straight on those worn benches, their rags worn with a pride that even Justin and his vanity could not match. The radio equipment, bringing him even more followers that would not have been possible had she (and he) not taken a chance on Tommy Dolan and KZAK radio.

And Iris herself. Standing apart from the throng, half in darkness (the better to see into her brother's shadows), faintest glint of red in her curls and white cotton blouse discerning her from the gray of the tent flap. Only fools walked in darkness, but fools walked alone, and Iris had never been alone. She had always had Justin, and she was still his - the ebony pendant around her neck depicting their mother and a long-ago promise (_protect him, and this, with your life_) she swore she'd never break.

This was the second time she'd had to repair the beaded cord.

_" . . . saying 'I beg you not to do this abominable thing I hate'"_

Iris' breath caught. Damn him.

God damn him - though she was a bit late in that request - he was speaking of her. Hardly the first time he'd exorcised their crimes in his preaching, but she was supposed to be forgiven. Her crime of loyalty to him had resulted in insatiable rage and subsequent punishment. The physical had not broken her (bruised, but never broken, not even when his teeth left blue-black marks on her neck), but the emotional nearly had. Shutting her out, slamming all doors - and still so gifted a pretender that no one suspected there was something very wrong in the house of Crowe.

No one save Norman and Sofie. Then again, wasn't there a saying about not fooling family? Well, if you could call the girl that. But who did Justin honestly think he was fooling, with his all-but-abandonment of Iris?

Certainly not Iris herself, when he still let his hand linger at the small of her back as he let her precede him through doorways. Or when he brushed his customary kiss at her temple every morning, no matter how long or loud they had shouted the walls down the previous night.

Thank God none of the migrants or servants spoke Russian.

And especially not when he would spend the day obsessing after Sofie; black-eyed burning gaze on the girl's every move, and Iris remembered when it was she on the other side of that look. He would spend each night exorcising that obsession in Iris' bed. Icy glances dissolving in the heat of touch, the one constant in her world these days.

Behavior all too reminiscent of Minnesota, a gypsy woman's walk-up off Lexington Avenue, and a just-out-of-seminary-Justin.

That was the thing about history - an unsettling tendency to repeat itself.

_"And after each warning, the people still would not open their ears to the truth of God. Jeremiah says 'But they did not listen or incline their ear, to turn from their wickedness and make no offerings to other gods. So my wrath and my anger were poured out and kindled in the towns of Judah, and in the streets of Jerusalem; and they became a waste and a desolation'. You see, brothers and sisters - that is our punishment for going against the will of God. Complete and utter desolation."_

She still could not tear her eyes from him. The sweeping movements of his arms, symphonic and sinistral (he'd always been left-handed), strengthening the vehemence of his sermon. Hands spread, palms up to display blue-blooded veins and delicate, deliberate fingers. She knew, had always known, the strength his hands belied.

Ages six and twelve, and a viselike grip on her wrist to keep from drowning in a runaway river of memory. Ages thirteen and nineteen, and a gentle squeeze to her palm - he was on his own now.

Ages fifteen and twenty-one, trembling and shaky grip on her skin as he guided her hips to meet his own. Ages twenty and twenty-six , pulling and ripping and punishing that woman for a biological imperative neither of them could stop.

Ages forty-two and forty-eight, hands spanning her waist beneath a windblown tree and a whispered promise (we'll build it together).

They had built it - their shining city on a hill. Their temple he'd prophesied would last for thousands and thousands of years. She had vowed they would build it together, but omitted her certainty that they would be ruling it together. It should have never needed to have been spoken; unfortunately, all the words they'd never said seemed to be coming out recently.

_"That is what will happen should we not take up arms in this election. We cannot watch while craven, godless politicians dictate our fate from on high in their ivory tower. We cannot allow those who have never known the suffering that we have known to hand down pronouncements regarding the way we choose to live our lives. We cannot, brothers and sisters, we cannot stand idly by while our freedoms are accumulated by those who have everything while we dwindle to nothing! I will not allow it!"_

They were steadily falling from grace, and while once they would have faced it together, now they had never been further apart. Where once there was barely skin separating them, there was now a gap to fill. A gap that echoed with betrayal - because practice makes perfect, and sin gets easier over time.

No, she would not allow it.

~*~*~*~*~

_"I will fight with every fiber of my being to see a man in Congress that I know will see justice done. A man that will stop at nothing to bring to light the crimes committed against the Okies and the injustices done to the migrant workers of California. A man that is God-fearing and Gospel-knowing is the only man for the job."_

Justin's voice had fallen to a hissing purr, as he eased the crowd down from their fervor. Anyone with ears to hear knew he was truly alluding to himself. Unfortunately, the thought of Justin in any sort of political position was laughable at first impulse, but Iris could almost see them doing it. Campaigning through the parts of California they'd never seen (Fresno, Irvine, Sacramento), and revisiting old haunts for support (Salinas, Monterey, Mintern).

It could revitalize Justin's passion for social change, and use his talents for something greater than raising funds for parasitical pseudo-politicians like Val Templeton. Justin was meant for a higher calling, and who knew? Perhaps his ministry could be balanced with political pursuits. "Senator Justin Crowe" had a particularly authoritative ring to it.

She could very nearly see it. Of course, his hubris would jump at the chance for more power, but while Justin was a capable speaker and sermonizer, he knew next to nothing about long-term planning. He would have greater need of her than ever - and so she would be right by his side, as she had always been. She would hardly be the first sister of a politician to run his household - Congressman Roderick rarely left the street where he lived without his sister Madeline. And if they were especially far from knowledgeable gossips, no one would question her presence . . . by his side or in his room.

Iris' eyes closed with an indrawn breath. Lord, it had been so long since they'd come together out of shared passion. Punishment, occasionally. Need, always. Hatred, a good deal of the time. But a true joining? An exchange of love and supplication, for sometimes he lead and she followed? Not in a long time.

Far too long.

Her tongue darted out to moisten suddenly dry lips, and even that small sensation coaxed a shiver out of her. With Justin's voice wrapping around her, and the darkness shielding her from prying eyes, she could almost believe she was alone.

Trancelike, her hand stole up to the long hairpin that laced its way through her hair, pulling it out and allowing her hair to fall. It settled in wisps around her neck and face, one auburn curl tumbling into her eyes, and floating upward again with a sigh. She slid the hairpin into the waistband of her skirt, brushing a thumb over the concavity of her stomach, almost believing but for size and texture of fingers it was Justin.

But no, her own fingers were much more calloused from years of washing, cooking, and needle work - contrast to Justin's smooth fingers, blunted only from hours of penmanship and page-turning.

Still, it wasn't an unwelcome sensation (rarely, in nearly thirty years, had she felt anyone's touch but his), and she traced lazy ovals through and then under the smooth grey-blue cotton. Her fingers kept counterpoint to the rise and fall of the cadence in his voice, her eyes glued to the charismatic thing of power that was her brother when in the midst of a sermon. She grazed the depression of navel, and the slight rounding of belly underneath it, wondering if she dared to go lower.

Her hand dropped beneath the waistband of her skirt as Justin's arms spread again, curling his hands into fists he raised to eye level, in supplication to whatever forces guided him.

(God or something else, she'd never dared to ask.)

_"Some of you believe it is a complete certainty that Val Templeton will be elected to Congress, but I tell you this - if Mr. Templeton should forsake us, the people who brought him up from obscurity, then he will be struck down!"_

Iris shivered as her fingertips grazed the lace waistband of her panties. A luxury meant more for her, but probably appreciated by Justin all the same. A sudden, fleeting memory of those strong hands ripping the last pair of panties she'd bought like these off her, lifting her hips to his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste her. Mouth as clever and seductive as his voice promised, enveloping her in a bass rumble that reverberated throughout her body.

Justin absentmindedly brushed a hand through his hair, soft blonde curls darkened and slick with sweat - it was rather hot in the tent - and Iris bit her lower lip at the remembered purr he would always emit as she raked her hands through his hair. One of his more hedonistic pleasures, they'd never let slip the real reason he'd used to sleep with his head in her lap. If they were alone , lashes would flutter closed over blue eyes, and she would just let her hands wander where they liked, and there wasn't a place she didn't like.

She bit down on her lip even harder as her hand passed the barrier of dark curls at the juncture of her legs, and slid between slick folds to brush the opening of her sex. Point of no return, and God, did she wish he were here with her. Blue eyes darkened in passion, not anger, and he would look down on her with that reverent awe he'd never, in thirty years, lost. She would feel the burn of his body against hers and the penetration in triplicate (eyes, tongue, and sex).

It would be Iris and Justin, Alexei and Irina, and nothing could separate them.

"Well, ain't that a sight to see . . . Miss Priss bringin' herself off in plain view of the good public, and thinkin' on her brother to boot."

She froze, identifying that rough hothouse bray immediately. Varlyn Stroud.

"Got to say, Miss Crowe - didn't think you had it in you."

~*~*~*~*~

Her voice was miraculously steady, lapsing into the bitter tartness she'd developed after Justin's now-constant taunts (_dried up old spinster/waste is a sin/Iris, upstairs/what a day to lose the maid_).

"I suggest you be on your way, Mr. Stroud."

Instead of backing off, he insinuated himself in front of her (between her and Justin), capturing her wrist and bringing it to his face. He sniffed it, dog-like (and of course, he heeled to only one master), keeping a firm grip on her, when she would have wiped it on her skirt and slipped out of the tent.

Justin's voice burned back into her ears, that insinuating purr that made her thighs slide together and her teeth close over her lower lip whenever she heard it.

_"He, and anyone else, who dares to bring harm to the people of this great city, will come to regret it all the days of his life."_

"See, your mouth is sayin' no, little lady, but your cunt smells like yes. Told you I liked the way you smelled."

If he thought his vile language was going to shock her, he'd obviously never gotten a taste of the perversity her brother was capable of. She jerked back on her arm, but Stroud held fast, pinning her against his bulk. How could she have been so thoughtless as to chalk his menace up to sheer size? He wasn't just a fat goon - he was a solid goon, muscles built inside stone walls that she could have come to know intimately had Tommy not been sacrificed in her stead.

And God help her, because no one else was going to, but after months of lapping up at Justin's scraps, even Stroud's backwards masculinity was becoming appealing.

He laughed a little - a baritone rumble that had neither the depth nor warmth of Justin's - and brushed a hand over her chest, cupping her breast and rolling the nipple through cotton of dress and brassiere. Shock and pleasure spiraled through her. He pinched less than Justin, but had to fumble for a reaction - thirty years of trial and sometimes error, and Justin could write a book on the precise way to make Iris scream.

It was intoxicating - the newness of Stroud's experimental touches and the knowledge that Justin probably (if he was to be believed, and she always had been able to believe without seeing) knew exactly what was going on. She chanced a look at him over Stroud's shoulder. He had both hands on her body and oh, he was a fast learner, having slid a hand past slip, garter and underclothes to echo her previous tormenting of her sex, and her mouth opened in a gasp. Justin was still speaking - _train wrecks_ couldn't stop her brother from preaching - but his eyes were locked to hers.

He knew. Had known ever since she slipped into the shadows and been hidden from view by Stroud what was going on. The knowledge made her breath come harder, with the barest hint of a cry.

"That's more like it. Like to hear a woman scream when she's havin' a good time. Course, we can't be too loud - Brother J wouldn't take too kindly to a disruption in his sermon."

_Tscheslavnyj sukin syn . . ._

"Brother Justin wouldn't take too kindly to you fucking his sister, but I suppose we're ignoring that little fact, aren't we, Stroud?", she hissed, taking hold of the knot of his tie in a vicious grip and tugging his face to within spitting distance.

"I'd say we are at that, Miss Iris," he said, leaning in for a kiss, and laughing even harder when she turned her head sharply, ensuring all his lips touched was hair. "Now, that's not very nice at all."

God damn him, she was so very close, and he was being an ass. To his credit, he never stopped the maddening little circles on her sex, nor the shallow dips of index finger into her opening. Her nails bit into Stroud's cloth-covered sleeve, wishing she could dig into flesh instead, rake him as raw as he'd made her. She tasted the familiar copper tang of blood in her mouth as her gnashing teeth finally broke skin, trying in vain to keep from making noise and cursing the slight whimper that escaped her.

Luckily, Stroud took that as another sign she was enjoying herself, and added a second finger to his fumbling explorations. Sticky fingers that, if they weren't quicker about this, would get them caught (like and yet wholly unlike Alexei "accidentally" spilling the honey jar on her arm - hot, wet mouth and fluttering tongue cleaning her up). But Stroud's rough, uncalculated touch, as disgusting as it might have been, was doing the job, and Iris could feel the telltale coiling in her belly as she bucked against him.

Oh God, if this was a betrayal - of her brother, of God, they were one and the same, after all - she didn't care. She'd go straight to hell with a defiant and steady eye, because she was Irina Belyakov, and it was her job to do the things Alexei wouldn't or couldn't do. He could remake the world, but it would be she who helped him rule it. A king's appetites were never to be questioned, but a queen's were never meant to be discovered.

_"I say to you now, the only way Val Templeton could be tempted from the path that we have set him on is by the lure of gold. For the Bible not only teaches us that money is the root of all evil, but that the man who takes a bribe to shed innocent blood shall be cursed for all his days. And all the people shall say Amen."_

Iris had to laugh under her breath - Justin had always held a special interest in the Twelve Curses. Hardly surprising he put them to use in every sermon.

All except the one they could never stop condemning themselves to.

_Cursed be the man who lies with his sister._

Well, she wasn't technically "lying" anywhere (the bearing of false witness had haunted them from Salinas to St. Paul to Mintern to New Canaan), and Varlyn Stroud was no one's brother. So what did that say about Iris, who wanted nothing more than to exchange Stroud's inexperienced roughness and untempered licentiousness for the long-built foundation of she and Justin and everything they were?

"You got quiet all of a sudden, little lady - what's the scuttle? You ain't havin' a good time no more?"

She would have answered him, possibly with a spit to the face and pointed jeer in Russian, if not for the cold response that fell over them.

"Perhaps my sister has realized she is tired of her little rebellion, Stroud. It simply takes so much out of a person to be as calculating as she is."

~*~*~*~*~

As the taunt left Justin's lips, she realized it didn't hurt her, as it once would have, to hear him condescend to her. It wasn't that she'd gotten used to it (she didn't think she ever would), but she was tired of him being so holier-than-thou. Because he wasn't, anymore, not after three little maids shipped off to a sanitarium and an old man out in the shed that he thought she hadn't noticed. She quite simply did not care to hear his tantrums any longer, and what she did with men, be they his lapdogs or not, was none of his business.

Unfortunately, she didn't have the chance to tell him so, as Stroud hastily removed his hand from beneath her skirt and looked nervously around the now-deserted tent. Lord knew how long Justin had been standing there, but he'd certainly seen enough - both from the dais, and apparently from a more intimate view - to have developed the hard glint to his eyes that was evident when he was at his most livid. His eyes were still blue, thank God.

"Brother J! I was - er, I was just-"

Her brother grabbed Stroud by the tie (mirror, mirror), and hauled him nose-to-nose. "Touch her again, Varlyn, and I will find myself in need of a new acolyte, as your body won't be recognizable enough to identify."

The coward scurried out of the tent, and Iris dragged a hand through her hair and straightened her blouse and skirt. What had seemed like a worthwhile betrayal stung more than expected when confronted with her brother not two feet from her, the anger in his face slipping into disappointment. She schooled her face into a calm mask, one developed over years of no-we'll-get-caught and her voice into that of big-sister-knows-best.

"Alexei, I-"

His voice was flat, devoid of the much-loved mellifluence that the world knew him by. "Stop it, Ira. Don't deny me, not if you've already betrayed me as well."

"I haven't-"

"Don't. Look me in the eye and tell me you haven't already scrounged together your thirty pieces of silver and made plans for your goodbye kiss."

She couldn't do it. Couldn't lie to him, not outright. She had already tracked down the movements of the carnival and expected them to reach New Canaan in less than two days. Had used Norman's savings with his blessing to amass the money she'd need to bribe the carnies into setting up outside a religious camp. Had gone looking through Stroud's things the morning after he'd appeared in New Canaan, and found the picture of the boy savior Justin had sent him to hunt.

Ben Hawkins.

The dice were loaded, and the time would soon come for Iris to set things in motion. For who better to bring about Justin's destruction than she? Iris Crowe. Irina Belyakov. The right hand of the Left Hand of God. She'd tried her best to hide it from him, but Justin had always been too curious for his own good. Do not let your right hand know what your left is doing, and so he'd shut her out as completely as she had him.

No more locked doors and cloth-covered tattoos from Chinatown. No more calling for ambulances at 5 am, blocking out screams and howls. No more gypsy women, be they daughters or lovers. No more shattered mirrors or abortive confessions or broken promises. But she had one more promise to keep.

She raised her eyes to Justin. To Alexei. To her brother/lover/child whom she'd never wanted to betray, but followed the path laid out by God for them.

_"Prostite men'a, moj brat. Ya sozhaleyu."_

Horror slowly filling his face, mirroring a cool spring night and _I did it for you_. She had paid the price for her actions again and again, and he knew it. For how to punish the submissively defiant?

His hand gripped her arm - not her neck, thank God, she'd had a time explaining away those bruises - and pulled her to him. Softness a natural complement to hardness and she shuddered in satisfaction - still able to affect him after all these years. Her mouth opened under his with a moan as she pressed herself against him, glad to let him chase away the lingering vestiges of Stroud's scuffling at her. He poured all those unspoken words into her mouth, and she responded in kind with desperate touches, hands lacing through blonde curls and across broad shoulders before he pulled away.

Justin reached a hand to his mouth, as if to seal in the taste of her forever, then looked down at her with softened eyes.

"It shouldn't have had to have been you, sister mine . . . but that was one hell of a Judas kiss."

He withdrew from her, the black of his cassock dissolving into the shadows of the tent, and his voice rang with that innate belief he hadn't displayed since the night of the fire.

"God has chosen you this time, Ira. His will be done."

**Author's Note:**

> _Tscheslavnyj sukin syn_ \- conceited son of a bitch  
> _Prostite men'a, moj brat. Ya sozhaleyu_ \- forgive me, my brother. I am sorry.


End file.
